I didn't want to, but I did
by HungerGames1
Summary: A Roman guard has to accompany Jesus as He is being crucified. The guard doesn't want to hurt Jesus, but they made him. The people he called friends made him hurt Jesus. Jesus wasn't the only person that got betrayed that day.


A/N- The point of view is from a Roman guard. I hope you like it!

"Did you hear," my fellow guard asks, whispering in my ear.

"Hear what," I ask.

"That Jewish guy is finally getting tried," Bartholomew replies.

Oh, no. "Was his name Jesus," I ask, trying to sound indifferent.

"I think so. It's about time he gets tried," he responds. I look into his dark blue eyes, and all I see is hatred. Why does he hate Jesus so much? Jesus didn't do anything wrong.

"Let's go. We have to be present at the Jewish guy's trial," Bartholomew says. That guy has a name. I am disgusted by his attitude. We begin to amble along. We arrive at his trial and all I see are mobs of people. Some scream for Jesus' freedom, and some scream for revenge. My eyes turn into saucers when I see Jesus.

Jesus is being beaten and mocked by people I know! He kneels at a whipping post in front of many soldiers' feet. "Come on," Bartholomew says. He saunters towards Jesus and grabs a whip from another guard. He raises the whip high and violently brings it down. Jesus lets out a small shriek of pain as the whip comes into contact with his skin. The whip leaves a bright red mark and a steady stream of blood.

"You think you're so great," a guard mocks.

"Look at the great king of the Jews," Bartholomew says with a snicker. Another guard whips the Messiah. I can't stand to gaze at Jesus any longer.

My gaze falls to the mob. "Stop! You're hurting him," A young woman shrieks.

"Oh, look! The guard's squeamish," a guard says, chuckling. Bartholomew stares at me for a moment.

"You, give him a whip," Bartholomew barks, pointing at a younger guard. The guard gives me a look of sympathy and hands me a sleek long whip.

"Make some room," Bartholomew says while taking a step back. All of the other guards take a step back, too, making room for me. Jesus gradually raises his bloody head and stares at me with pained eyes. I want to help Him. I want to tell Him everything's okay, but I can't. The whip raises and slaps Jesus across the back with a loud crash.

Jesus winces, and I wince, too. Why did I just do that? "Really? Is that the best you can do? My grandmother can hit harder than that," a guard mocks. I glare at him, trying to appear intimidating.

"Whip Him harder," Bartholomew orders. I raise my whip higher and hit Him harder than before. Jesus lets out a strained shriek, and I can see blood overflowing from His many back wounds.

"Stop," orders a man with a strident voice. We follow his order obediently. I can't help but stare gloomily into the eyes of the person I just caused pain. "Please forgive me," I want to whisper, but I can't. If I do, I will be punished. I will be fired. I don't enjoy this job, but I need it. My family needs it, and I'll do anything for them.

The trip to Pilate goes by in a daze."This man did nothing wrong," Pilate says after listening carefully to the Roman guards describe the situation. I breathe a sigh of relief. At least someone is thinking sensibly. The crowd screams accusations.

"He's guilty," many scream. After some argument, Pilate finally agrees to have Jesus crucified. I try to remain emotionless, but to no avail. My eyes become huge, and my mouth drops open.

Jesus is shoved along the road by my fellow guards, and sadly I join them. Bartholomew digs a crown of thorns into Jesus' head, and says, "Ha! Here's your crown, King of the Jews!" I want to rip the torturous crown off of Jesus' delicate head. I want to, but I can't. I try to keep my distance from Jesus, but that doesn't work out.

The other guards shove me to the front next to Jesus. It was only yesterday when He was eating supper with His disciples, and now He has a death sentence. He falls for the first time, and my heart sinks. The cross falls squarely on His back. I can see the lash marks my whip made.

The guard next to me shoves Jesus with his staff. Another guard whips Jesus harshly on His already scarred back. I stand where I am, trying to comprehend what's happening. "Whip him," Bartholomew harshly orders. I raise my whip and close my eyes when it meets its target. Jesus slowly regains His strength and continues on His terrible and cruel journey that I helped create.

A young woman leaps from the crowd. "Jesus," she shrieks. A flicker of recognition shows on Jesus' face. He hugs her hurriedly and whispers something into her ear. He plants a kiss on her forehead. I'm guessing she's Jesus' mother, but I can't be sure. They share one last hug before Jesus is forced to continue to saunter to His death.

Jesus was becoming weak and was stumbling along. The other guards were afraid Jesus would die before He finished His cruel journey. "You," a guard says while pointing at a man in the crowd. The man raised his eyebrows and points to himself. The guard nods his head. "What is your name," the guard asks.

"Simon of Cyrene," the man answers in a cowardly voice. I don't blame him. The guards make me nervous, too.

"Help Jesus carry His cross, Simon of Cyrene," the guard says gravely. Simon sprints to Jesus and doesn't say another word. He helps Jesus carry His cross. Jesus is panting hard and is nearing the end of His strength again. I wouldn't be surprised if He fell again.

A woman jumps from the crowd. She quickly wipes Jesus' pale face with her veil. She wipes away the blood that stains His holy face. She whispers something inaudible. Jesus responds, but I can't hear anything from where I stand. The woman gazes down at her veil and just stares at it, dumbfounded. Jesus leaves her with her veil and continues to amble along.

The only thing I hear is a murmur from the crowd and a holler of pain. I swing my head around and see Jesus sprawled on the ground with Simon frantically trying to help Him. The cross made a sickening sound as it fell on His frail back. The guards immediately scream at Him to get up. Some whip Him. Some mock Him. Some spit at Him. I just watch.

Jesus is eventually on His feet and continues on His brutal journey. There are some women who are weeping for Him in the sidelines. Jesus halts for a moment and says, "Weep not for me, but for your children." That line almost makes me want to weep for Him! He passes them, and I tense. We're almost there.

Suddenly, Jesus plummets for a third time. People screech, but some chuckle. The guards kick Him, spit at Him, mock Him, and many more pitiless things. "Do something," Bartholomew whispers harshly into my ear. I raise my whip once again and wince when it makes contact with Jesus' skin. I glance at Bartholomew, and he looks pleased with me. I don't care, though. I stare at Jesus, wide eyed. "Please forgive me, Jesus," I want to whisper, but I can't. I wish I could.

Jesus finally arrives at the place where He will be crucified. I wish I wasn't here. I would rather be anywhere but here. Some of my fellow guards strip Jesus of His clothes. They roll lots to see who gets Jesus' clothes. I personally think it's so disrespectful, and I don't take any part in it. The guards order Jesus to lie down on His cross and He obediently does. I think He is relieved to have a break, but I'm trembling. I know they have terrible pain in store for Him. A guard brings out a box of nails. When Jesus sees them, His eyes widen, but He doesn't do anything else. The guard grasps a hammer and is about to drive the nails into Jesus' flesh, when Bartholomew says, "Let the squeamish one do it."

Betrayal is the first word that pops into my head. I thought Bartholomew was my friend. I begin to quiver as I grab the hammer. I place the nail gingerly over its target. I rapidly drive the nail through His bloody hand. He lets out blood curdling screams, and I feel like a monster. No, I am a monster. I quickly place a nail in His other hand and place one final nail in both of His feet. I wince when Jesus winces. My heart breaks when I hear Him scream. It's almost like I can feel His pain.

The cross is raised by me and some other guards. The other guards leave shortly after, but I don't follow them. I know no one will overhear me, and that is the perfect time for me to say these words. I turn my head up and gaze into Jesus' pained eyes. I whisper, "I'm so sorry."

A/N- I hope you liked it! Please review to help make my writing better! Thank you for reading. :D


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